


Forgiving, Forgetting.

by Naicele



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Series, Teenagers, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4981573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naicele/pseuds/Naicele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam fucks up royally and he doesn’t think Dean might ever forgive him. Pre-series Wincest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forgiving

**Forgiving**

 

Sam knew he was utterly and totally fucked up; had in fact always known it. The constant moving, never fitting in, the fights he always tried to avoid but persistently seemed to end up in; and most of all—his family. His father hunted monsters, come on, if that did not spell screw-up in big bold letters then nothing did. All of this said, loud and clear as a church bell on a Sunday morning, that he was, indeed, irrevocably fucked up.

It hadn’t really mattered at first, it was just a fact; a part of him. Also, Dean was the same and Sam wanted to be everything Dean was; following his brother around with big, awed eyes for the first fifteen years of his life.

Besides it hadn’t bothered him, not really. Well at least not until he became a teenager anyway and suddenly fitting in seemed like the most awesome idea ever. He still remembered it, the moment he had found out that there were options; that this was not the way it had be. It had been like opening a door, like an epiphany. Some teacher telling him that he and only he made the choices in his life.

However, the problem with realizing that you have options, or that things doesn’t have to be the way they are just because they always have, or because your father says so, is that suddenly settling for what you got becomes incredibly hard.

ooo

“Sam, what the fuck?” Dean’s voice, shrill and annoyed and just behind him, pierced through Sam’s calm, breaking his concentration. He looked up from his book, World War II, A History, and his shoulders tensed in anticipation, a long since ingrained reflex. He was prepared and so moved with it when Dean’s palm connected with the back of his head a second later, as a result it hardly touched him; fingers brushing through strands of hair.

He came up standing, bare feet buried in rough grass, toes curling to get a good grip. He glared at his brother. Dean was standing with his back towards the yellow sun making him seem highlighted from within; a bright light inside his skin trying to escape at the corners.

“Didn’t you hear me shouting my fucking lungs out for the last ten minutes? We are leaving, everything’s ready. So common already,” Dean’s voice strained at the edges, radiating annoyance. He looked flush and angry and Sam could tell his brother was warm, sweaty and just wanted to get on the road, window open and music loud. Constantly moving never seemed to bother Dean as it did Sam.

Sam squinted at his brother from under long eyelashes and hair that seemed to constantly fall into his eyes, however often he cut it or whatever products he put in it. He let his hands close into fists at his sides and sneered at Dean, mouth curling just so, “Yeah I heard you,” he said, putting all the defiance and anger he could into those few words. He cared that they were moving, again, even if Dean didn’t. It wasn’t even like he had a choice, no one listened to him or what he wanted; so why should he come running as soon as they called?

Dean just set his jaw that way he always did and looked steadily back, hazel green eyes firm as steel and said nothing. Sam met his gaze as long as he could take it, but eventually he had to fold; he could never bear that intense look from his brother for long. Sam let his gaze drop to his bare feet and dreamt of ships made out of soft wood breaking on sharp rocks. He could feel his anger leave, melt away until it was only foam cresting the waves.

Dean saw him give in and seemed to take pity on him, “Common dude, It’ll be fun leaving this dump behind, see something new.”

As Sam bent and gathered his books, Dean smiled at him as if to say, it will be alright, just trust me. Or maybe as a consolation price for loosing yet another staring match against him. They started back towards the house and Dean, not being one to abide silence easy, put a hand on Sam’s neck, steering him towards the house while making a dumb joke about how he was now remote controlling Sam’s every move and how cool it would be if Sam really was a robot.

Sam just hummed as he agreed that of course the robot should have a gun instead of an arm and a machete on the other side. It was an old game of Dean’s and Sam had played it countless times before. He let Dean guide him though; callused fingers around his neck.

Dean’s hand was warm and Sam could feel the heat seep into him, that fussy feeling in his stomach which seemed to be the result of so much his brother did nowadays.

They walked up a small dirt path, small pieces of gravel sliding under Sam’s feet. They came into the back yard from the small field where Sam had been reading, not sulking in anyway because he was way too smart for that. Dean let go of Sam to jump over the railing, even though there was a gate in the rundown, broken picket fence. Sam smirked, stupid brother of his always showing off, and rubbed a hand across his neck where he could feel Dean’s grip still.

Sam didn’t jump but kicked the gate open. During the months they had stayed here he had developed a certain liking for kicking it. The travesty of a white picket fence for some reason annoyed the hell out of him, like a mockery of the ultimate icon of a normal life. Sam’s life was not normal and so he kicked the fence, turning his foot in the air as he had been thought; he kicked it hard and with a vengeance. It rattled and groaned satisfactory in its frame. His only disappointment was that it hadn’t fallen down by his repeated abuse.

“Common, Sammy,” Dean called in front of him; not even bothering turning around, Dean knew Sam was following, Sam was always following.

“Don’t call me that,” Sam muttered, too low for Dean to hear it. The sun was hot on his back and all he really wanted was to stay, not that this place was any special or even all that great. The house was not much better than a shack, two bedrooms, living room and a kitchen, all rooms equally pallid. The only good thing had been that Sam had his own room since John had slept on the couch. It had been quiet at least.

Summer was spreading its tentative fingers over the landscape and Sam had just finished school when John claimed it was time to move again; they had stayed here for far too long. Sam argued, just for the sake of it, until he had to withdraw, blinking back tears in his eyes, as his father shouted at him to obey and to behave. Because he was a part of this family and he should act like it.

It all meant that Sam had lost, as he always did, and it was back to the road again, trapped in the car for hours and hours slowly nursing a growing cabin fever from lack of something to do. An endless string of new motel rooms, eating food out of vending machines and no privacy what so ever. After all Sam was 16 and surely a room of his own and proper meals on set times were not too much to ask for?

ooo

A month and 8 or maybe 9 identical motels later and Sam thought he was going mad. Everything just blurred together in a haze of roads, diners, motels and then more of the same like a bad song stuck in his head. The heat was still building and getting to them all, making them cranky and irritable and Sam eventually lost track of all the fights he started just for something to take his mind of his too hot body.

Outside the car window the Great Plains rolled by and Sam woke up to Dean telling him they were in Oklahoma. The slow spur was over and John was finally on the trail of something, a poltergeist by the sound of Caleb’s description over the phone.

John had them repeating everything they knew about poltergeists the last leg of the trip, just for a chance of calling them idiots when they forgot something, Sam was sure. Dean played along and even Sam eventually joined in, knowledge after all was what he did best.

John dropped them off in a motel in a small town a couple of miles outside Tulsa, gave Dean the customary order, “Look after your brother,” whereupon Dean, as always, answered, “Yes Sir.”

Sam tried to argue that he and Dean should come with him, “I’m old enough and you can use the backup!” He didn’t really want to go but then his father didn’t want him to and that was good enough for Sam.

John didn’t rise to the bait this time; he had smelled prey and his eyes had that hunter’s gleam in them, his mind already far, far away. He always seemed five years younger when he had something in his cross hair, like he was finally doing what he was supposed to do. He patted Sam absently on the head and told him to be a good boy and he was off with a last, “Don’t wait up for me,” shouted over his shoulder, not looking back. Sam scowled at the closed door, anger making a tight ball in his chest. Another fight he had lost.

The motel was sort of OK, at least it looked clean and it had cable. Sam dropped his bag down, pulled out a book and flopped down on his stomach on one of the beds. Behind him he could hear Dean rummage around, opening the bathroom door and checking inside, turning the TV on and off and looking under the beds for any forgotten items from the previous inhabitants. As children they had found lots of cool (and creepy) stuff like that.

Lost in his book, Sam didn’t notice when Dean got tired of the room until he could feel the bed dip down as Dean sat down beside him.

“What are you reading about now geek boy,” Dean said, poking a finger painfully hard into Sam’s ribs.

“Not like you would understand anyway, dropout,” Sam sneered at him, trying to move further away on the bed.

“Look who’s talking now,” Dean laughed, following Sam across the bed as he kept poking him, “It’s not like you have finished school yet so keep it in bitch.”

Sam ignored his brother, it was impossible but he always tried anyway, dragging it out as long as he could. He had never been one for ripping off band-aids, always waiting until they fell off by themselves. When Dean was bored like this, would push Sam until he reacted, and Sam eventually would.

As Dean saw that his poking had lost its effect he changed strategy, he knew his brother like himself, no better than himself, and so knew exactly what would piss him off. It was a skill Dean had honed to perfection over the years. He knew all of Sam’s buttons, having installed some of them himself, and which ones to press when for maximum effect.

Dean lay down on his back on the bed, squeezing to fit beside Sam and theatrically stretched; mouthing a huge yawn, the noise loud and ridiculous sounding and then he let his arm drop down over Sam’s book. It was calculated and childish and so Dean knew it would make Sam furious.

It was a well known fact that Dean enjoyed messing with Sam. Sam never understood why and tried hard to not give in to Dean’s petty riles. It always ended in the same way though with Sam, all dark eyed and mad, losing it, because it was Dean’s favorite hobby and he was good at it; although he only acted like this when their dad was not there to tell him off.

Sam seldom shouted at Dean when he got him worked up, he only did that at their father. Dean he just stared at and then jumped; all ungainly legs and long arms, struggling to get the better of his brother. Sam never won, that was just the way it was. Dean was older by years and had always been stronger, faster and better. Sure Sam might have outgrown him this last spring, but Sam so far always lost out to his brother.

That hard ball of anger from earlier was still sitting high in his chest; a part of him. Something he always carried with him, wherever he went. He had forgot how it was not to have it there, it grounded him, gave him something to focus on when everything turned the color of shit; the theme color of his life. The only thing not shit colored was Dean, he was just, well, Dean colored. That was why he never got mad in the same way around his brother. Sure he got mad, all the time Dean was a dick which was most of the time, but not that bitter, world destroying crazy he got with their father.

Sam had stopped reading the second Dean dropped down beside him, their bodies touching all the way from the shoulder and down to his thighs. This much physical contact did strange things to his head, something he normally ignored. Because he was sure he shouldn’t be feeling like this anyway. But today he was exhausted from the last month, still angry as hell with his father or maybe just the world in general and he couldn’t really be bothered to fight his own body as well right now.

As Dean’s arm landed on his book, some of his pent up anger rose to the surface immediately. He let his mouth twist into a sneer and he pushed at Dean’s arm ripping a page in his book as he did, “Dean you moron. Stop that,” he shouted.

Dean just snickered and tore the page straight of, happy for finally getting a reaction.

Sam saw red, a hazy veil across his eyes, his brother destroying his book for no other reason than to mess with him, the lousy weeks in the car, being dismissed yet again as a kid by their father and now this, and it was just too fucking much. He heard someone roar and through a pounding like drums in his ears he thought that it must have been him as he threw himself at Dean, fists clenched into balls.

Dean yelped in surprise, something Sam normally would have mocked him for endlessly, but there was no time right now, he was after blood.

Sam might have surprised Dean, but his brother had years of hand to hand combat training behind him and quickly recuperated, fighting Sam all the way. They clawed and punched at each other, trying to get the better of the other and at some point they must have fallen to the floor, but Sam never noticed. He fought hard and he fought dirty, finally biting Dean so hard in the shoulder that he tasted blood. Dean shouted in surprise and pain and in the confusion Sam managed to pin him down, using his longer body to keep him flat on the floor, holding his brother’s arms steady against the coarse carpet.

Sam came to, panting wildly, chest heaving like a bellow, sweaty strands of hair in his eyes which he could not brush away without letting go of his brother’s arms.

“Damn, Sam, you bit me, you fucking bit me,” Dean moaned, trying half heartedly to shake Sam off, but he was breathing heavily, energy spent.

“I won,” Sam said instead, ignoring his brother. As Sam said that, voice rising incredulous towards the end, Dean shook his head, “Only because you cheated, this does not count!” Sam never won over Dean, it just didn’t happen.

“I won, I beat you, just admit,” Sam said, a huge grin spreading on his face, lighting it up like Christmas.

Dean just looked up, pain seemingly forgotten at the sight of his brothers face, happy, pleased and not in a malicious way. He wasn’t happy Dean had lost, he was happy he had won. If it had been Dean he would have gloated, but that was not like Sam. So Dean smiled back, stupid grin on his face.

“Yeah you did Sammy, I should get you a beer.”

Sam made no move to get off Dean but instead he looked at his shoulder and an inaudible wince passed across his face, “Sorry about that. Does it hurt?”

“Na,” Dean replied and Sam knew that meant—a little bit. He let go of Dean’s arms and pulled his shirt away from his shoulder to look at the damage. Two rows of red where his jaws had gone in, it had just barely broken the skin, tiny splatter of blood, but it would bruise. Sam had marked his brother, maybe for life if it didn’t heal well enough.

Sam kinda lost it at that, the thought of Dean always bearing his mark, the rush of finally having won and left over adrenaline went straight to his head and he bent down and licked the blood away. No time to think it through and stop himself. One steady swipe with his tongue, so simple, but it sent an electric shock through his brother who grew amazingly still afterwards.

“Sammy?” Dean asked, voice not really bearing but the question mark audible. Sam stilled at that; he had no idea what he was doing after all. He was feeling light headed, triumphant and large as the entire universe. Yet something in Dean’s tone told him that what he had just done was very, very wrong, he just couldn’t figure out why right now.

Sam turned to face his brother. Dean was looking flushed, a red tint to his neck and his eyes were wide green pools that Sam wanted to drown himself in. He wondered idly how far down that flush went and thought that if he died right now, a meteor from outer space crashing into their motel room obliterating them into flying sparks of molten lava, then everything would be alright. Instead he rolled his tongue in his mouth and felt the metallic, warm taste of Dean’s blood, their blood.

Sam put a hand on Dean’s face, wanting to feel if that red was as warm as it looked. Dean’s cheek was burning hot and Sam watched in fascination as his brother’s throat hitched as he touched him. Dean didn’t move, even though Sam wasn’t holding him down any more. Sam was fascinated, a hot curling in his stomach telling him that this was his price, something unarticulated he had felt for far too long, realized in this moment. He had won over Dean and that meant that all the normal rules didn’t apply; he could do anything. The logic of it so clean, so simple and his body saying yes, yes.

Experimentally he ran a finger along Dean’s jaw, letting himself feel the muscles under smooth skin. He cupped the cheek and let his thumb stroke over lips, just once, lightly back and forth. Something that sounded like a pained moan escaped Dean’s mouth and he closed his eyes, as if looking was too much.

He slid of Dean to his side, leaning on one elbow, body pressed flush. His hand trailed down Dean’s throat and over the collar bones. He lifted his hand and pulled at the hem of his brother’s t-shirt, pulling the fabric up and letting one hand slide in, placing it flat on Dean’s warm stomach. It felt amazing, Sam thought, looking intently at Dean’s face, a bead of sweat gathered on his upper lip, a strained look over his closed eyes.

He let his fingers curl slightly, dragging his nails gently over skin, leaving white streaks which instantly disappeared. He traced his own teeth with his tongue, his mouth dry and his breathing labored.

He didn’t take his eyes of Dean’s face as he went for his brother’s jeans, pulling at the buttons awkwardly until he got them open, popping them one by one, then one hand inside. Carefully feeling the raised mound through thin boxer fabric. He took a deep breath, pausing for a second; a vague and distant feeling of surprise by how much he wanted this.

His fingers slipped awkwardly in beneath the elastic waistband, fingers curling around his brother. He started to stroke; gently up and down, shifting his body trying to get the angle right, all the time intent on how Dean’s face contorted and twisted as he slowly jerked him off.

Dean came in a moan that might have been nothing or a twisted version of Sam’s name, his hands clamped into fist at his sides, eyes screwed shut.

Sam watched it all in silent fascination, all the way to the end. His own body fiery and stricken by the heat of it all. He looked as Dean’s face changed from tight to reverent to slack and it wasn’t until then it really struck him what he had done, and to whom. Holy shit, he thought, he had just … and then he couldn’t even think the words. Dean didn’t make any other noise and Sam sort of panicked then, wanting Dean to say something, anything.

“Ehm, Dean?” He asked carefully as he pulled away his hand and wiped it on his own jeans.

Dean didn’t say anything at first; just lay there all still, eyes closed. It made Sam crawl in his skin.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean said at last, a tired note to his voice.

“You, you OK?” Sam said after a tense second, licking his lips nervously.

Dean didn’t reply but forcefully shoved Sam off him and pulled his pants up, walking to the bathroom.

“Dean?” Sam said once more, weaker this time as Dean slammed the door shut in his face. Sam studied the closed door intently. Sitting on the floor and hugging his knees he rocked back and forth, slowly realizing that this was probably the worst he had fucked up so far.


	2. Forgetting

**Forgetting**

That night Dean stayed inside the bathroom until it was well after midnight and as he sneaked back in Sam faked sleep, body stiff with fear and trepidation. All he could think was that Dean would kill him, or push him away; saying that he never had a brother. Choosing between losing his only brother and death, Sam realized he’d pick death any day. When Dean did neither, just crawled into the other bed, back towards Sam and falling straight to sleep, Sam started to get really worried.

He’s waiting for dad, Sam’s mind chanted, he is going to tell dad and then it will all be over for you. Fear a sour taste in the back of his mouth, his body felt cold yet he was sweating; mind so warped out of proportions his body was reacting physically. He had no idea how John would react when Dean told him, but he was sure it would be bad. Not knowing somehow made it worse though, so much worse.

That night was the worst night of Sam’s life and he couldn’t have slept had the entire world depended on it, instead he had to lie awake and live through every second of it. Suffocating guilt mixed with heated memories of Dean and it was slowly but surely breaking him. He tried to focus on any one thought but it all kept slipping and sliding in his mind, too fast for him to keep up.

When the sun finally crept in between the curtains he felt like he had aged a century. He watched the slim rays move across the wall and the grey slowly being replaced by colors again.

He flinched when he heard someone fiddle with a key outside their door and he clamped his gritty eyes shut, pretending to sleep as their dad entered, only opening one eye slightly as John turned around to close the door behind him. He looked tired and dusty, a new tear in the sleeve of his jacket, but whole and alive. I should have left, Sam realized, run away never to be found again. He could have started over somewhere else, it was too late now and he cursed himself for his fear induced inertia.

“Rise and shine boys,” John said, thumping their feet as he walked past them into the bathroom. Sam stayed put, pulling his blanket up over his face, breath soon heavy in the thick air of his cave. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or simply dejectedness which made him hide. He prayed silently that at least it would be quick and that he was really sorry, over and over. He stayed put, body frozen and listened to the scuffling sounds of Dean getting up and dressing. To John and Dean talking about the job through the door of the bathroom, low muffled sounds from his father which he could not make out, and he waited for Dean to tell their father.

He never did.

ooo

On the other hand Dean didn’t meet Sam’s eyes and hardly spoke a word to him after that night.

Days passed and then weeks. Sam lived in a perpetual state of shame and fear, eating him up from the inside burning away everything that was him; replacing his innards with raw emotion, good for nothing. Can’t go one like this, he thought to himself time after time, but then somehow he did. Every time he saw Dean, which in their closed-up lives was all the time, he fell a bit further into the pit of his misery and as Dean kept pulling away from him he missed his brother’s smile so much it physically hurt.

If their dad ever saw something was wrong he never said anything. Maybe he just figured they’d had a fight and would get over it. When he wasn’t driving he was mostly drunk anyway, disappearing in the evenings to bars and roadhouses, stumbling in after midnight smelling of smoke and cheep booze and falling straight to sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

As soon as John left for the evening Dean made up tasks he had to do or places he had to go to, keeping him away from Sam most of the time. Volume yanked up too loud if they ever had to occupy the same motel room alone, forestalling any apologizing or general talking Sam might have tried to do.

Sam felt like a zombie, like he wasn’t even there anymore. Someone else had taken over his body and he looked on as it moved and ate and sat as if everything was normal. Trapped inside his own head he screamed at himself that the world had ended and he should finish himself of while he had the chance. He never listened to himself though. Sam supposed he was a coward as well.

He spent most of his nights awake, lying absolutely still and refusing to move. He stared up at the ceiling of whatever motel they were in at the moment and repeated stuff in his head, like names of countries in Europe or the periodic system with all the atomic weights. What he did not do was think about Dean and the fact that even though Dean hated him Sam had trouble forgetting that abandoned look on Dean’s face. It did things to Sam, reminding him about how irrevocably and utterly fucked up he was.

If only Dean could forgive him he thought, or just forget about the whole thing. Then they could go back to normal, to being brothers. He made up elaborate scenarios in his head where he made believable excuses to Dean who nodded solemnly and forgave him. Come the light of day he never dared say anything though and he tried as much as Dean to be out of the way and inconspicuous. He didn’t even fight with his dad as much, somehow thinking that if he kept quiet and still then they would forget about him and that would be a good thing.

ooo

In Nevada they all hunted together, a simple salt and burn and John wanted Sam to see some action. Figuring it might cool the anger of his youngest son a bit. The ghost of a young man kept appearing in the middle of the town road at night, causing the panicked drivers to crash. When they arrived in the tiny town, four drivers had been killed already. John dressed up in a suit taking Dean with him to visit relatives of the dead, trying to find the connection. Sam was too young to pass as, well anything, he explained.

Sam waited until they had left the motel, looking out through the curtains at the receding black car and then made his way into town, getting a ride with the cleaning lady from the motel after he smiled sweetly at her, waved his school bag and asked for the library.

She stopped in front of the building but refused to let him go until he took a box of matches from the motel with her number scribbled on the back, just in case he needed a lift back. He smiled his most disarming smile, pocketed the matches and promised he would be fine.

He closed the car door behind him, slinging his bag over his shoulder and looked at the library. The building itself was small and unimpressive, dirty brick with a definite state feeling to it but once inside Sam let out a deep breath, he was in his element now; rows of books leading you on, promising ways out for a second or a lifetime.

He installed himself among the local newspapers in a dusty section towards the back and began his research. He was all alone, it was summer after all, and so he spread his stuff all over the place. Here he could sit for hours and as papers and books piled up he could feel something settle inside him, calming down, going to rest. This was the first time since that night he was truly on his own, knowing he would not be disturbed.

Neither Dean nor his father felt comfortable sitting still for too long, they preferred to do things, talk to people. John would only go to the library as a last resort, they were men of action Sam thought and smiled at the tired proverb. Sam on the other hand never felt better than buried in research, doing something he was truly good at, better than both Dean and his father. Sometimes he wished he could do this forever.

He looked for that something, violent deaths involving cars or young men going missing, trawling the recent papers and microfiche for leads.

It didn’t take him many hours to find out who their ghost might be, Sue Piper, a local girl of the same age as him. Not boy like the rumors had said or he would have found her faster. Sue was smiling shyly up at him from the black and white photo in the paper, pale hair closely cropped for a girl and standing on edge. He purposefully tried not to meet her gaze and not to think about whom she had been or what her family might be feeling now. He read the article and obituary twice, just to be sure it was her.

Sue, 16 years old, had been hit by a car in the middle of the night a couple of years back and no of course they never caught the driver; who had just left her lying on the curb. When someone finally found her, hours later she had already bled to death from her wounds. It had probably been painful and taken a long time the local physician said in a quote.

He copied down all the information he could find about her and even photocopied the picture of her from the obituary. He felt almost good, having something with which to occupy his mind and his hands after so long spending all his days drowning in his own self-loathing pit of despair.

He bought a candy bar from the vending machine in the entrance for lunch and decided to walk back to the motel, stretch his legs after too long sitting still. It was a sunny day and he felt just a tiny bit better about himself and any minute he delayed getting back would be another minute he could pretend he was someone else and that all was well in the world. That he had not molested his brother who now hated his guts.

He walked along the road on the dirt track beside the charcoal grey asphalt, all the way back to the motel, bag slung across his back, eyes squinting in the sun. He returned sweaty with gray road dust clinging to him like a second skin. He paused for a second in the parking lot when he saw the shiny body of their car parked neatly outside their room.

He walked over and put his hand on the hood, the black metal searing his palm, a heat coming from driving as well as the sun. As he removed his hand, flexing his palm to make sure it wouldn’t blister he stopped as he saw the perfect outline of his hand still on the hood, beige dust where his skin had been.

The visual mark reminded him he was still here, still the same person. Someone not really fit to touch a car like this, not clean enough. His mood sunk back down and it felt like dusk even though the sun was still high and not a cloud could be seen on the clear blue sky.

No point prolonging the inevitable he thought taking a deep breath and walked up towards their door.

ooo

“Weren’t you told not to leave this room,” it wasn’t a question and Sam winced on the inside.

“Yes sir I’m sorry sir,” he knew he was overdoing it, he just hoped John didn’t think he was pulling his leg. For once Sam was not in the mood for a fight, he just wanted to show them Sue’s picture and tell them her story.

John’s eyes narrowed, crow’s legs forming at the corners, but he must have seen something in Sam because he didn’t pursue it.

“Yeah well don’t do it again,” he said, turning around indicating that there would be no further repercussions from Sam’s disobedience.

Sam relaxed, shoulders slumping and he realized his body had been strung up tight expecting his father’s anger. He looked at John as he wrenched his tie off and threw it on the floor, his other hand already gripping a glass well filled with something amber which Sam guessed was whiskey. A bad day then, Sam thought.

Dean came out of the bathroom, suit still on, a quick fleeting glance over Sam, gaze never slowing and only stopping momentarily at their father. Sam held his breath, casually wondering if a person could die holding their breath or if you would pass out before you hurt yourself. Dean didn’t do anything though; just walked over to the bed slumping down, face first in the covers, legs hanging over the side so as not to dirty the covers.

“What now then?” came Dean’s mumbled voice from the bed and Sam quietly let out his breath, the pain in his head subsiding and vision coming back into focus.

John didn’t answer, just put his feet up on the other chair and took a long swallow of his drink.

“Didn’t you find anything?” Sam said hurriedly before he lost his nerve, he thought that if he had a really sharp knife he could have cut the tension in the air into thin slices.

“Nothing. No one fucking knows anything or fucking care in this louse place they call a town,” John answered.

“I mean because I did,” Sam said before John could continue his rant, even though he knew from experience that interrupting seldom was a good idea. He started digging through his bag to get the papers.

“Yeah?” John said, an eyebrow lifted, head turning towards Sam.

Sam didn’t say anything just thrust his notes and the picture at his father and in the corner of his eye he could see Dean lifting himself up on his elbows looking at him, face unreadable from this angle.

He looked back at John, who was looking through his notes, nodding his head absently as he read.

“It’s not the drivers, it is the cars,” Sam said, unable to keep quiet any longer, “They are all dark, four-door cars of a similar size. Like the one which a witness saw driving too fast through town the night Sue was killed.” He tensed, waiting.

He heard the bed creak and he more felt than saw Dean coming up to them; his brother’s presence suddenly thick in the air.

“Here,” John said and handed Dean Sam’s notes, “What do you think?” Hand moving back to grip the almost empty drink in front of him, scared sun tanned fingers curling around the glass.

Dean glanced through the notes, hand rubbing absently across his chin. Sam stood absolutely still, feeling like he was being judged at the final judgment. His soul, his life, everything he was on the edge of a knife.

Dean looked long at the picture of the smiling Sue and Sam knew Dean was thinking what he had been earlier. Sam saw him shake himself, a minute shiver traveling across his brother’s features.

“Way to go Sam,” Dean said and he looked at Sam while saying it, hazel eyes meeting Sam’s and Sam said, “Yeah”. Yeah, like a child who just been told that every day from now on was his birthday. He turned around quickly, pretending to fiddle with his bag, so happy he might have cried had his father not been in the room.

ooo

That night they all stayed up waiting for darkness to fall, going over all their weapons and sipping acrid tasting coffee made from tepid tap water and cheap instant powder. It made Sam’s mouth taste like old gym socks and his teeth feel suspiciously soft, but Dean drank it without complaint so he did to. He sneaked glances over at his brother, quick guilty looks under the fringe of his hair. He didn’t think Dean noticed, or if he did he didn’t show it.

Dean was focused on taking the Desert Eagle apart and putting it back together, strong hands smooth and sure and Sam forced himself to look away, running his thumb over the edge of his bowie knife testing the honed sharpness of the metal.

As soon as it was dark enough John rose, “Time to go boys.” No one argued, it was real now, the hunt was on. They packed up, their army of three moving with each other as if they had prepared for this night their entire life; which, technically, Sam thought, they had.

No one said anything during the drive. As the bright headlights of the Impala came to rest on the wrought iron gates to the cemetery John spoke up, “No shenanigans or heroics now, you got that?”

“Yes sir,” echoed the brothers in unison and John’s stern face, for a second, so fast Sam almost missed it, broke into something resembling affection, or perhaps pride. It flickered for a second and then it was gone, back was the hunter –the soldier- and gone was Sam’s dad.

They all walked into the graveyard together, shovels and gear hiked up over their shoulders, moving quietly among the graves, pale beams of their flashlights lightning up the headstones as they read the names. Sam walked slightly behind Dean’s back, eyes intently on him and a desperate flame of hope in his stomach. Dean had looked at him today, met his eyes, maybe, just maybe Sam thought there was a chance. He didn’t deserve it, he knew that, told himself constantly, but he was relentlessly betrayed by some weak version of himself who wanted nothing more than his brother back.

They didn’t have to look for long, the last grey of the twilight just disappearing and full darkness settling like a blanket over the three living men walking quietly among the dead. John whistled, one long note, indicating he had found it. Dean turned back at Sam, careful not to blind him with his flashlight, making sure he was with him as they both hurried over.

John had already started digging, boot clad foot pushing the shovel down deeper into the soft soil, arms and back tensing as he lifted and emptied the load behind him. He didn’t look up when they came over, content that they would tell him if something was wrong. Dean threw his bag down and started digging next to his father.

“Keep a lookout will ya Sam,” Dean said and Sam nodded, crossing his fingers for luck for a second, still talking to me, he thought. He cast a last glance at his family, both better men than him, better than he could ever hope to be, before turning around making sure they could do their deed in peace.

After a while Sam traded places with Dean, on John’s order. Dean tried to say he wasn’t tired yet, and yeah it wasn’t as if the sky had turned green, Sam didn’t think his brother would ever admit to either physical pain or exhaustion as long as he had strength to curse.

John didn’t stop digging only said, “Do it,” and Dean might have flicked Sam off just to get at someone but he pushed the shovel down into the ground and jumped out of the hole. Sam laughed behind his hand as he took his brother’s place; it was almost as it should be, like old times. He soon lost himself to the digging, the rhythm of the physical activity; muscles straining and heart beating.

It didn’t feel like more than a minute or two passed until John said, “Dean, your go,” and Dean stopped his restless pacing around the edge of the grave. He jumped down, “Out of the way sissy,” pushing Sam loosely on the shoulder. Sam climbed out, edges coming up to his waist now. He got to his feet, running his hands through his hair, scraping away little bits of dirt which fell like raindrops down his back. A cool breeze sneaked in beneath his t-shirt as his raised arms barred a stretch of flat stomach above his jeans.

On an itch he looked up, eyes immediately meeting his brothers, a strange darkness in Dean’s eyes which Sam could feel all the way over to where he was standing, like electricity in the air. His stomach rolled and his chest contracted, mouth going instantly dry.

He almost spoke up, right there in front of their father, the burning in his stomach had to know what that look meant.

That was when it happened.

A ghastly shriek suddenly pierced the air and Sam saw Dean drop the shovel as his hands reflexively went to his ears. Then John was shouting, “Sam, move!”

Sam threw himself to the side, almost in time, a touch, cold as ice sliding across his side. He landed in an ungainly pile, hands wrenched awkwardly under him to soften the landing, flashlight falling away and breaking with a clink. He rolled instantly, as he had been thought, lesson 1; Get the hell out of range.

As he rolled he started to shiver, teeth clattering. He was so cold, an intense chill spreading from where the ghost had touched him enfolding his body in ice.

For a second Sam just stayed put, eyes first seeing nothing and then gradually adjusting to the darkness, silhouettes of gravestones and stars slowly appearing. Must move, he thought.

He pushed himself up slowly, fighting his body which only wanted to give up, lie in a little pile and get warm. Another angry scream filled the air, so high it was almost out of hearing, but not high enough that it didn’t cut through your head filling it with pain. The ghost, Sue, was flickering to and from, going in and out of existence as she raged.

She had her back to him now, ignoring him, her full anger towards the two men trying to dig up her grave. Sam saw her stretch out a hand, fingers bent like claws, nails black and broken tearing at the air towards John and Dean. John shouted something Sam couldn’t hear and then he was throwing rock salt at the apparition.

Sue snarled and blinked out of existence reappearing almost the same second inside the pit, clawing at Dean. Dean! Was the only word running trough Sam’s head, a typhoon blowing away everything else. He pushed himself up as he saw Dean go down and threw himself at his bag, fingers stiff and awkward from the cold, fumbling at the zipper. Finally wrenching it open and spilling the content on the ground.

He saw John swing the shovel in a wide arc and he dropped to his knees holding his head as the ghost shrieked in anger, temporary dispersed, searing pain in Sam’s head as she dissolved in a shower of sparkles. Seconds was all they had and Sam knew it. He dimly heard John shout Dean’s name and saw his head disappear below the lip of the pit as he must have bent towards his other son.

Sam didn’t waste any time, he grabbed his notebook, opening the correct page and he almost faltered; too dark. He couldn’t make out the letters and he had lost his flashlight in the fight. He heard John scream then, not the words but the anger in his voice and he looked up, seeing Sue, face contorted with the burning rage which kept her in this place almost making her unrecognizable from the shy girl in the picture he had seen. She was leaning over the edge, skeleton like hands trying to grab John.

Sam’s though desperately and then he remembered the matches. He dug his hand into his pocket, as his fingers felt the square shape of a match box he almost laughed in relief. He pulled them out, hands still shaking, breaking the first match, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” was all he could repeat desperately trying a second one, then a third. He took a breath, thinking of his brother, the fourth match held, bright yellow flame flickering into life.

Sam started chanting, “Jam tibi impero et præcipio maligne spiritus! ut confestim  allata et circulo discedas, absque omni strepito, terrore, clamore et foetore, asque sine omni damno mei tam animæ quam corporis, absque omni læsione cujuscunque creaturæ vel rei; et ad locum a justissimo  tibi deputatum in momento et ictu oculi abeas; et hinc proripias.”

Sam didn’t pause, or look up; he just had to hope it was working. He only had seconds before the match would burn down and he had to say the entire incantation for it to do any good. As the last syllable rolled of his tongue it was dead silent and as the match run out, burning his fingertips, darkness settled.

For a moment Sam did nothing and then the light beam from a flashlight appeared from the dug grave. He scrambled over, crawling on his hands and knees though the dirt, because he didn’t trust his legs. As he looked down his heart exploded in relief. John and Dean were sitting side by side on the bottom, looking alive although a bit worse for wear.

John looked up at him and smiled, “Are you ok?”

Sam nodded, “You?” he said.

“Peachy,” Dean said and grinned.

John got up to his feet, pulling Dean up with him, “How long will she be gone you recon Sam?” He said and it took Sam a while to realize he had asked him, even though he had used his name.

“Uhm, not long, she is strong.”

“Will we have time to finish this?” John asked waving aimlessly at the grave and it hit Sam with full force that his dad was asking for his opinion on this, wanted Sam to tell him.

“Yeah, I think so if we hurry up.” Sam said, hand scratching his neck, he was glad it was dark because he might have been blushing.

“Well then, you boys better get a move on,” John threw a shovel to Dean who grimaced and rolled his shoulders.

“Don’t wine, it will get you warm again,” John said, one eyebrow hiked up.

It went like a charm from there, the pit was almost done anyway and in less than ten minutes what was left of Sue was exposed to the air.

They stood for a second on the edge, Dean shaking dirt of himself like a dog and John pouring lighter fluid over the bones. He threw the empty can down as well and turned to Sam, “Want to do it son?”

Sam nodded solemnly and picked up the packet of matches from his pocket and without hesitation lighted the entire packet and threw it in. The red fire roared up in the dark hole throwing them all in eerie light as the flames consumed the bones. No one spoke as they burned but Sam imagined he heard a sigh of relief go through the air

 

ooo

Once again back in the car on their way to the motel Dean turned from the shotgun seat, grinned at Sam, eyes sparkling, and said, “You did good Sammy, real good.” His voice full of blind, stupid pride and Sam grinned back, feeling suddenly blinded by the sun after too long spent in darkness. Cheeks straining to accommodate his huge smile and a warm blissful feeling almost bursting out of his chest; ripping it open like that monster in the Alien film Dean had made him watch. Dean nodded at him and turned back in his seat. Sam let his body relax, keeping a content sound in and realized that, yeah, this was how happy felt like.

He let his body tilt towards the window, forehead resting against the glass, cool smoothness against his forehead. He studied the black and grey landscape rolling by and he felt that maybe things would be alright again. Maybe he would be forgiven.

ooo

Later that same night Sam sat in the back of the car, eyes closed, listening to the engine spin as they went ninety down the empty highway and Dean joyfully telling their father all over again what had happened, “…and motherfucker that ghost was fast but Sam was faster…” even though John had been there to see it all go down. Sam squeezed his eyes closed until stars began crossing his vision and he made a solemn promise on Dean’s smile that he would rather leave than ever fuck up this bad, ever again.

 

-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for those of you wondering the latin means: Now I command and charge you, O evil spirit! that you immediately depart from the circle, abstaining from all noise, terror, tumult, and stench, and if you refuse I will damn you both in body and soul. And abstain from harming any creature or thing, and depart immediately to the place which justice has appointed for you. Depart from my sight and flee from here.

**Author's Note:**

> Second and last chapter being edited as I type. will try to upload it in a day or two.


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